


baby, we built this house (of memories) - draft one

by sunflower_8



Series: amasai week 2020 !! [5]
Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, This Time On: Horrible Pacing, draft one of larger story, kind of?, resolved emotional tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:20:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23234626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflower_8/pseuds/sunflower_8
Summary: this is not rantaro's life.(or, rantaro is coming to terms with the world around him)
Relationships: Amami Rantaro & Saihara Shuichi, Amami Rantaro/Saihara Shuichi
Series: amasai week 2020 !! [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1665994
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	baby, we built this house (of memories) - draft one

this is not rantaro’s house.

this is not the house he grew up in. it does not smell like fireplaces and cheap lavender candles; there are no books scattered on the coffee table. if he opens every door, he won’t find his mother’s clothes folded, still smelling like fresh laundry. if he goes to the drawers in the kitchen, he won’t find bags of sencha tea. there is not a single album of photographs. there is no life, no melancholy, no mirth, no emotion. 

this is not rantaro’s house.

and yet, this is the one he came back to after danganronpa ended. 

the kitchen is small, and kirumi spends most of her time there, cooking with maki or korekiyo or whoever stops by that day. the drawers are empty aside from a few spoons, and the only tea they have is chamomile. nobody carries photographs, nobody lights candles, and everyone’s clothes are scattered in their room. people are alive, maybe--

\--but rantaro is not.

this is not his house, and they are not his family. 

“hello, rantaro,” shuichi saihara greets when rantaro stumbles in the kitchen at two am. he sits and watches the green-haired man, cradling a cup of black coffee to his chest. he doesn’t sound cold when he asks, “how are you?”

“shut up,” rantaro responds immediately. shuichi quietens. “why is there no  _ tea _ ?” 

“there’s plenty of tea. it’s just not the kind you like.” he almost seems timid as he says it.

rantaro considers storming out, locking himself in his room (not  _ his  _ room, the room, the room that he was forced into) and never talking to a single person ever again. instead, his legs stop working halfway on the journey and he collapses into a chair beside shuichi. the dark-haired man doesn’t comment on how pathetic he looks. he just keeps drinking coffee. 

“how are you friends with everyone?” it slips off of his tongue before rantaro can filter it. shuichi looks at him curiously, his green eyes intrigued under a thick layer of lashes. rantaro figures he can continue, “i get it, you survived. congratulations. everyone likes you. but  _ how _ ?”

shuichi raises his eyebrow, “everyone likes you too, rantaro.”

“you’re a shitty liar, you know that?” he spits out, trying to hide the fact that he almost,  _ almost  _ believes him. “a horrible. fucking. liar.” rantaro pushes the chair away from the table, standing up and walking out of the kitchen, his entire body tense. before he can leave, he hears a soft,

“goodnight, rantaro,”

as if the fucker expects him to get any sleep. 

\--

these are not rantaro’s friends.

because rantaro’s friends are dead. four generations have lived and died, killed and gotten killed, and rantaro had to vindicate and condemn them all. four generations have come back to life, shiny smiles on tv and sharp glares in the streets. none of them like rantaro. all of them left him behind.

these are not rantaro’s friends, but kaede is very alive, smiling away her apathy and offering to talk to him. ryoma gives him a candy cigarette and kaito asks him to train. these are not rantaro’s friends, because rantaro’s friends don’t care, and these caricatures do. 

shuichi saihara is the worst of them all. 

“rantaro,” he calls. rantaro keeps walking. shuichi keeps talking. “i heard it’s your birthday today.”

“i noticed,” he replies dryly.

shuichi has the audacity to smile. “congratulations. kaede made you a present--”

“i saw,” rantaro says.

“ah, alright.” shuichi has the audacity to  _ keep smiling  _ even though he must be  _ disappointed.  _ “i just didn’t want you to be alone on your birthday.”

“what if i  _ want _ to be alone?” rantaro challenges. “ever considered that,  _ mr. detective _ ?”

shuichi flinches, just slightly. it makes rantaro smirk. it falls away when shuichi says, “yes. i did consider that. and i decided that it’s bullshit.”

“fuck you,” rantaro forces as much venom in his voice as he can. “fuck you.”

shuichi saihara is not his friend, because shuichi saihara didn’t give up.

\--

these memories are not rantaro’s memories. 

these memories aren’t of losing sisters, becoming many different ultimates. he doesn’t fail in these memories; he doesn’t lose and lose and lose because he  _ wins and wins and wins _ . he doesn’t win in these memories. he doesn’t defeat a grand evil, he doesn’t get looked with a damning hatred. 

these memories are not rantaro’s memories, but shuichi saihara is in them.

“why are you still trying?” he asks one night as he sits on a balcony, shuichi sitting beside him silently. he watches the sun set as rantaro keeps talking, “why have you not given up on me?”

“because i knew you were trying to push everyone away out of pain,” he responds. “you didn’t want us to stay away, really. so i was going to keep trying. and i still will.”

“you know i’m an asshole,” rantaro argues.

“yeah. you are.”

rantaro laughs a little, “and it’s going to take forever for me to come around.”

“yeah. i know.” shuichi says neutrally. 

“but you’re still going to try.”

“yeah. i will.”

rantaro doesn’t feel like laughing anymore. “this isn’t good for you.”

“says?” 

“says logic!” rantaro stands up. “you’re putting up with an  _ asshole,  _ shuichi.”

“i want to help you. i want you to be comfortable. i want you to talk to the others. i want you to  _ make new memories _ .”

rantaro would never be able to explain why that simple phrase made him begin to cry. he falls to his knees again, wrapping his arms around shuichi and burying his face into his neck. shuichi seems surprised but hugs him back,

and something seems to click into place.

\--

this is not rantaro’s house, 

but it could be his home. 

**Author's Note:**

> hi this is really bad and the saimami isn’t even apparent enough for this to really fit this week bUT i can't write like anything else today for them i'm uninspired and failing the vibe check 
> 
> everyone: sunflower, you dumb whore, why don't you just do the prompt late
> 
> sunflower: we die like men
> 
> SO basically i want to make this a full slow burn amasai story but i’m not able to sit down and write like 6,000 words. so!!! have this and give me seven months to write the full story!! it wil be better!!! i promise!!
> 
> ALSO when i actually finish the draft it's probably not going to have the same title because this fic has nothing to do with that song but i want it to relate to some song because :((( i wanna


End file.
